


What a Piece of Work is Man

by 44TayLo



Series: Your Mind's a Steel Trap [3]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Also current child abuse? This is hard to tag, Beware the gore, Bruce is scared shitless, Depersonalization, Exploitation of anxiety and rumination/obsessive thinking, F/M, Horror, I'll be adding tags most likely, Non-Consensual Kissing, Past Child Abuse, Physcial torture too, Psychological Torture, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, allusions to rape/non-con, and to be honest so is Steve, kind of?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-17 22:34:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2325617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/44TayLo/pseuds/44TayLo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce wakes up shackled to the floor of a cold dungeon. Then he wakes up again, strapped to a dissection table. Then in a high tech holding cell. His deepest fears play out before his eyes, so well contrived, they even include his own screwed up symbolism and analogies. Bruce’s mind is like a steel trap, so if you can kick one domino over, it’ll destroy itself for you. The dominoes begin to fall, one by one. Eventually, he’s left questioning what’s real and what’s not. And Steve’s being forced to watch the show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Persephone Defiled

**Author's Note:**

> Beware the tags. 
> 
> So here we go. I think I finally found the genre I can write. And it's horror. Shocker. Anyway, this is the third installment of the Your Mind's a Steel Trap series. You don't have to read the other two to understand this one. The first one doesn't even really count, if I'm being honest with myself. 
> 
> Enjoy. Comments and suggestions welcomed.

He knew something was wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on what, exactly. He was floating, still half asleep, and it took him some time to realize that was what was wrong: Bruce Banner didn’t wake up slowly. For him, waking up was like flipping a switch to the on position. It involved a sudden moment of rigid, motionless panic while he listened for voices and noises, before he finally opened his eyes and took stock of his surroundings. So this whole slow-return-to-consciousness thing was kind of disturbing. The fact that Bruce barely felt disturbed at all was another indicator that something was really wrong. His mind was sluggish, trying to keep him under, and his eyelids might as well have been glued shut for how well they were cooperating.

The only logical answer, he realized languidly, was that he’d been captured and drugged. Captured and drugged. That meant people turning him into a weapon. Stealing his blood. Churning out more monsters. Ross. Torture. Pain. So much pain.

His breath stopped. Panic broke through. All at once, Bruce felt himself gasping awake. His eyes flashed open as his body tried to pull itself into a sitting position. Metal cuffs bit into the soft flesh of his wrists while the chains connecting them to the cold, stone floor beneath were pulled taught. A yelp of pain escaped his lips as his arms were wrenched painfully and unexpectedly.

Kicking experimentally, he found out that his ankles were bound as well. He was shackled to the floor, he realized, making it impossible to do anything but lie prone on his back. He knew his captors had done this on purpose to make him feel more exposed, and though he was loathe to admit it, the tactic had certainly worked.

His drug addled mind briefly thought of Kafka’s _The Metamorphosis._ The knowledge of his strength did nothing to dissipate his body’s natural response to being on his back, soft underbelly exposed and limbs unable to do anything but flail uselessly.

Bruce hadn’t thought of _The Metamorphosis_ in a while. He shoved it from his mind. Self-loathing could wait until he’d figured out how to get out of this damned cell. How had he ended up here, anyway? God, if he could just focus for a couple seconds…his mind was all over the place, and yet it still felt sluggish. His limbs felt heavy, too. The knee-jerk reaction of panic was fading away, and he was once again finding it difficult to keep his eyes open.

Well, he could just hulk out and get this whole ordeal over with. Except…he’d been on a mission before waking up here. A mission with the Avengers that had involved him at the battle in human form. He’d been dismantling a gamma bomb while the others fought genetically altered animals. Steve had been with him, guarding him, and he’d deactivated the device, and then…

Bruce forced his eyes to open. Steve could very well be here, too—wherever here was. No, he was definitely here. Because Bruce remembered seeing Steve grab at his shoulder before falling face-first into the dirt, remembered feeling panic rising along with the roaring in his head. But before he could let the Hulk out, he’d felt a stinging sensation on his own shoulder before his body numbed and the world went black.

Could he trust Hulk to find Steve before taking this place down? A voice in his head that sounded oddly like Tony gave a definite yes. Still, Bruce wasn’t sure. He’d gained a lot of control over the Other Guy the past few years. Hulk commented in his head occasionally, if Bruce allowed him to be close enough to the surface. In return, Hulk made it easier for Bruce to speak to him after he took over. Bruce still didn’t remember much about what happened after the fact, but he was able to vaguely remember instructions he gave Hulk. Still, sometimes Hulk didn’t listen. Sometimes Bruce’s control wasn’t enough to keep Hulk on task. He couldn’t risk Steve’s life by hulking out right now.

Come to think of it, Hulk was being oddly silent right now, given the situation. Bruce prodded the space Hulk occupied in his mind, and…

“Fuck,” he sputtered through heavy lips and a thick tongue.

Logically, he knew this was happening because of a paralytic, which was already wearing off. There were probably other drugs in his system. Adrenal-inhibitors or beta-blockers, maybe a combination of both. Probably a chemical designed to bind with the plethora of excited electrons in his cells that corrupted and corroded his blood until there was nothing but poison pumping through his veins.

He could move, though. That was promising. In a couple minutes, the drugs might be metabolized enough to call the Hulk to the surface. That seemed to be his only option at this point. With the drugs these people had access to, he didn’t know when he’d receive another chance to let Hulk take over.

The door opened. Blinding light spilled through, and Bruce’s eyes squeezed shut instinctively. He saw the light leave behind his eyelids and heard the door latch once more. Able to see again, he found himself staring up and two large men carrying a limp body between them.

The blond was clearly unconscious, his head lolling to the side. The men lowered him to the ground and began to chain his arms to the wall behind him. Bruce was unable to do anything but watch as they then shackled Steve’s ankles to the floor.

Bruce desperately searched for the Hulk inside his head. There was a faint rumbling in response. Just a bit more time, and Hulk could break free.

He hissed through his teeth as he felt a sharp pain on the underside of his forearm. With trepidation, he realized something was bound to his arm.

The men turned around, looking him over. One grinned and kneeled down next to him. “Doctor Banner,” he greeted.

The only response he could muster was a shaky exhale.

Numbness began to spread through Bruce’s body, making everything heaver. He’d suspected before, but now he was certain that whatever was strapped to his arm must be some kind device that delivered drugs to his system.

The man laughed. “The Incredible Hulk, hm? Not so invincible now, are you?” He ruffled Bruce’s hair in a disgusting gesture of pseudo-fondness. “You’ll give us the information we want. Or we’ll hurt you. And there will be no green beast to save you, this time.” As if to make his point, he backhanded the helpless man before him. Bruce immediately felt blood begin to poor from his nose and down his throat. He was unable to do anything but silently bear the pain, even as the man yanked him by the hair and turned his head to the side so he didn’t gag on his own blood.

He hoped some of it splattered on the man’s hand. People consistently underestimated him; even with Other Guy bound he was still poisonous.

As the man looked down at his unsoiled hand, that hope died in his chest. His captor laughed. “Try not to bleed so much it reaches Captain Rogers, yeah? We need him alive.”

The men left, and Bruce began to feel his consciousness being pulled under once again.

When he resurfaced, he felt freezing metal beneath him. He reluctantly opened his eyes. Light immediately assaulted them, and a long moment passed before he could focus on what was in front of him. Once he did, all he could see was a white ceiling. There were restraints around his ankles and wrists, and the drugs still coursing through him made it nigh impossible to move.

So when a soft voice murmured, “Oh wonderful, you’re awake,” he couldn’t turn his head to the side to see who had spoken. He knew that voice. It sounded just like her. But why would she be here? Unless they captured her for leverage, but she didn’t sound scared.

The sharp click-clacking of high-heels echoed through the space. A hand stroked the side of his face, and she leaned over him, giving him a clear view of her tranquil visage. Her gentle expression juxtaposed black bruises and a swollen eyelid, making Bruce’s heart leap in his throat.

“What happened to you?” he whispered. He could move now, enough to talk, and something regarding that was wriggling in the back of his brain, demanding attention, but he couldn’t pull his gaze or thoughts away from Betty’s face.

Her fingers trailed over his cheek.

“You.”

He swallowed thickly, his face crumpling. “Oh God, I…did I…? But the Other Guy—”

“No, Bruce,” she interrupted. Her expression remained peaceful as one, impossibly sharp nail dug suddenly into his jaw, continuing downwards and leaving behind a long cut.

He hissed through his teeth, the restraints keeping him from reaching out to touch her.

Her fingers lifted off his face. They ghosted over his chest, making him shiver despite himself.

“You did this,” she continued, her tone dropping and becoming weightier. “Not Hulk. You.”

“I wouldn’t have. I could never…Betty, I don’t remember doing that,” he gasped out. Panic was welling up hot and fast inside him. Because this was Betty, _Betty_ , she wouldn’t lie about that. And violent bouts of rage were written in his genes. Even before the Hulk’s creation.

She stayed silent as her fingers began to quickly undo the buttons on his shirt. When the last one was free, she pushed the fabric aside and trailed those fingers down his chest. Nails dug into his skin yet again, but this time they were slicing deeply, cutting down to the bone, and Bruce couldn’t move at all now, could only scream as his chest was being forced open. His vision swam, and bile rose in his throat in response to the pain.

When the cutting finally stopped, he found he could lift his neck just enough to see what she’d done. He was slashed down the middle of his chest, and then that gash was joined on both ends and at both sides by perpendicular cuts. Betty’s manicured nails, now red with blood, pulled the two halves apart until they were laying like little open doors.

Bruce growled wetly in agony.

She reached inside, touching pink sinew and white bone, pulling, pulling, pulling. Ribs gave, and now she was breaking, breaking, breaking.

Bruce was sobbing. Bruce was howling. Bruce was crumbling.

She ripped through his pericardium, ripped out his heart from the adjoining veins and arteries, and held it in her hand.

He gazed up at her through the tears and black spots in his eyes.

She sliced his heart in half, stealing tiny seeds and popping them into her mouth. Deep red squirting across her lips, and it was too late. She’d eaten from the cursed garden, and now he’d doomed Persephone to stay with him in hell.

He cringed. Air left his lungs and he couldn’t bring it back in. He could, if he wanted to, look down into himself again and watch them balloon and deflate too quickly, too frequently.

He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to do anything but grab Betty and beg her to explain why. Why would she rip him open like this? Why would she tear him apart? Why would she intentionally cause him pain? And why, above all, why would she willingly take something that would only poison her in the end?

“Betty,” he croaked. He wasn’t sure how he was still alive. The Hulk’s regenerative abilities could be making a new heart, but not even Hulk could regenerate that fast enough. And God, wasn’t it sick that he could have his heart ripped out of his fucking chest and _still not die?_

“Why—” he was stopped by two fingers pressed to his lips. Copper droplets snuck onto his tongue, and now he could taste himself. His blood was bitter. Poisonous.

“This is what it’s like, Bruce. To love you. For you to love. Isn’t it?” she whispered. She was cradling his face in her hands, tears in her own eyes. “I’m sorry.”

The truth of that cut him deeper than her nails had. He yanked against the restraints, trying to touch her. She pulled away. As she looked down at him, fat tears fell from her face and onto his abused flesh. He whimpered at the sudden, centralized stinging.

She was trying to climb onto the table with him, trying to let him touch her. Her hand slipped out from under her, the metal surface made even slicker by his blood. She couldn’t catch herself, and Bruce saw that even before she hit the ground, her eyes were glazed, unfocused.

He lay there, immobile, trying to pull free of his restraints as she began to vomit.

“Betty.” But there was no response. He yanked harder, the leather straps cutting into his skin, every constriction of his muscles sending another wave of agony through him.

“Betty!” he choked out. “No. Please, please don’t die. Betty, I…”

“Why’d he leave?” she murmured, looking around unseeingly. “I wanted to go with him, but he left me.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I just wanted to protect you.” He was babbling, hysteria coating his voice. She was going to die because of him. She was going to die, and he couldn’t comfort her, couldn’t touch her.

Her eyes closed as her breathing became faster and shallower, her blood pressure plummeting. “Loved him,” she gasped out. “That’s what killed me. Loving him.”

“I know,” Bruce quietly sobbed. “I know, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry! Betty, please. Don’t do this. Don’t die, please, God, don’t let her die!”

She didn’t speak again, just took loud breaths that cut through Bruce’s rambling pleas, his promises to fix what he’d broken.

Her breath hitched, then stuttered, and with one last exhale, she was gone.

He yelled, long and angry and hoarse.

“I’ll kill you, I swear I’ll kill all of you!” He was screaming at those who had brought her here. At their unseen captors. They’d allowed this to happen. He’d kept his distance, he’d tried to keep her safe from him, but they’d shoved her in a room with a monster and let it destroy her.

“Come out! Come out, you fucking cowards!”

In his rage, he barely registered the sharp pain radiating from his forearm.

He was still screaming when darkness began to take over once again. That was also how he awoke.

He stopped screaming when he realized someone was shaking him. He lashed out, blinded by anger and fear and grief. None of his punches landed, mostly because he could hardly see anything in his haze of emotion, but he did recognize that there was a man in front of him. That was who had been shaking him. The man moved quickly, and suddenly he was holding him tightly, keeping his hands pinned between their chests. He was sitting on his legs, too, but Bruce continued to try and wriggle out of his grip. Minutes must have passed before he finally exhausted himself.

He stopped fighting, letting out a choked, defeated sob. And now he could hear things other than the wringing in his ears, realized the man was talking to him in soothing tones, keeping a steadying hand on his neck, and though his hold was uncomfortably tight, it couldn’t be described as anything but gentle.

“It’s okay, Bruce. It’s alright. You’re alright. I’ve got you. We’re going to get out of here, understand? We’ll find a way out.”

His eyes finally, finally focused. The man in front of him had blue eyes and short, blond hair. He was handsome, despite the bruises blooming on his cheek, and he was wearing a red, white, and blue uniform.

“Steve?” he asked shakily.

Steve’s face loosened in exhausted relief. He let go of him and moved off of his legs. “Yeah,” he answered. “Are you okay?”

He wasn’t, not by a long shot, but now his brain was catching up, and he was starting to puzzle out all of the things that were wrong with right now, with where he was before. There were far too many impossibilities for it to have been real, even if he’d been certain he wasn’t dreaming while it was happening.

“It was…it was just a nightmare?” he muttered, numb with disbelief. “It was…it felt… Fuck, Steve. I’m so sorry. It felt so real, I…” he choked on the emotions threatening to well up again. With a steadying breath, he forced himself to calm down.

Steve didn’t say anything, and for that, Bruce was grateful. At the moment, there wasn’t anything Steve could possibly say that would comfort him.

He rubbed at his eyes, then immediately flinched, bringing them back down. He could see her body lying there, see her standing over him and forcefully taking his heart, see her biting into it, see her—

He breathed deeply and grabbed at his hair.

The Other Guy was still missing. Which was awful, but also a small blessing, because if he wasn’t being repressed by an outside force, Bruce knew he would have transformed involuntarily. And that wouldn’t have been good with Steve here. At least he wasn’t bound or immobilized. If Bruce had turned, Steve would have had a fighting chance.

He stiffened. “Steve, last time I was awake, we were both shackled to the ground.”

Steve’s face pinched in worry again. “What happened the last time you woke up?”

“Two guys brought you in while you were unconscious. One spouted out some bullshit about making me talk, then hit me in…” He paused feeling underneath his nose and realizing there was no dried blood there. He squinted at his unstained hand. “He hit me in the face. But there’s no blood.” He stared back at Steve, who was looking increasingly concerned. The room was different, Bruce realized. It was white, obviously high tech, with no noticeable door. There had to be cameras hidden somewhere. The first room had been Medieval, almost chthonic in how dark, cold, and damp it’d been.

Something else occurred to him. He ran a hand down his bare forearm. Where the hell had the drug administering device gone? And if he wasn’t being pumped full of chemicals, how was Hulk being repressed? Gamma dampeners, he supposed. Though those weren’t known to work on the Other Guy for long periods of time. No, there had to be something else going on.

“Bruce?” Steve inquired, causing him to focus once again on the man before him.

“They were drugging me.” He held up his arm. “There was a device strapped to my arm. It kept the Other Guy from coming out and it paralyzed me. It’s gone, now.”

Steve placed a hand on his shoulder, gazing at him intensely. Without warning, he ran probing fingers over his skull. Bruce flinched away, catching Steve’s wrists in his hands.

“What are you—”

“I’m checking for head trauma,” Steve answered.

Bruce released him. “ _Why_ are you checking for head trauma?”

“You’ve been unconscious this whole time, Bruce.”

“No, I can’t have been,” he shook his head emphatically. “We were in a different room. You were out of it, still. They must have moved us again before either of us woke up.”

“I woke up in the van they used to bring us here. They were holding a gun to your head, so I couldn’t do anything.” Steve looked as confused and guilty as Bruce felt. “They’d put handcuffs on me made of metal I couldn’t break, and they said if I tried to escape, they’d shoot you, and Hulk wouldn’t come out, because they had ways of keeping him locked up inside you.”

A cold, heavy feeling settled in Bruce’s stomach.

“They brought me here and took off the handcuffs. The gun was on you the whole time, then they threw you in here and left. That had to have been at least an hour ago. You were unconscious the whole time, Bruce. All of that must have just been a nightmare.”

Steve didn’t sound so sure.

Bruce wasn’t so sure, either. Those “nightmares” had seemed too real to simply be dreams.

“What,” Steve paused, biting his lip. “What did you see in the other one? The one that had you lashing out?”

And it was there gain, sharp and sudden. He was doubled over, clutching at his chest and biting his tongue until he tasted his blood. Blood that had been on Betty’s fingers… He grunted against the memories still fresh in his mind and the return of the physical pain.

Blood was soaking his shirt. Part of him was relieved there was finally proof that it had been real in some sense. Steve was grabbing at his shirt. He ripped it open, pulled Bruce’s arms from around his own torso, and stared at the crudely stitched wounds before him. Other than the stitches, the cuts were exactly as Bruce remembered. Blood leaked between the too thick threads, and some of the stitches had popped, allowing blood to gush freely through the openings.

Steve freed Bruce’s shirt completely. He pressed it hard against the wounds, trying to stymie the blood loss. Bruce grabbed weakly at Steve’s hand, trying to pull it away.

“My blood’s poison, Steve,” he gritted out.

Eye’s wide with fear and concern, Steve batted his hand away. “Stop it. It doesn’t hurt me, remember? The serum.”

Bruce could only grunt in response.

“When...” Steve tried, breathless with panic, “I mean, how did this happen?”

“It may or may not have something to do with that last nightmare,” Bruce answered. He was compartmentalizing the pain. Without the mental agony to deal with as well, he could breathe through it enough to actually talk to Steve. It was better to ramble, to do anything but focus on the severity of the situation and the pain. “I’m also decidedly not a fan of this place.”

“No shit,” Steve huffed. “Should I be expecting anything else to randomly start bleeding? How are they even doing this to you?”

Bruce knit his brows. “I have no idea. I do know that there was a small cut on my face. And I got hit in the nose earlier, so a nose bleed is possible. My heart may also suddenly leave my chest, so let’s just hope they skip over that last one.” He paused to glance up at Steve, who was still kneeling in front of him and applying pressure to the areas that needed it most. Steve’s brows were drawn, and his eyes were focused on his own.

“Jesus, Bruce. What kind of nightmares do you have?”

“The usual ones,” Bruce snapped. “Being captured and dissected, accidentally killing my ex-girlfriend, you know how it is.”

Steve looked away and winced as though he’d been slapped. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that.”

Bruce exhaled deeply, wincing as a sharp pain flickered suddenly across his face. “It’s okay. I’m just a little stressed right now, is all.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of understandable.” His eyes flicked down to Bruce’s jaw. “That cut you mentioned showed up.”

“Thought so.” Bruce muttered. He let his head fall forward onto Steve’s shoulder, suddenly overcome by a wave of dizziness. “I’m losing a lot of blood, Steve.”

He put a comforting hand on Bruce’s shoulder, and after a moment, he snaked it around his back and up his neck to cradle is head. Slowly, he lowered Bruce down onto his back while managing to maintain pressure on his chest. “Pain and blood loss are a nasty combination. I don’t understand how you haven’t passed out yet, to be honest.”

Bruce hummed through clenched teeth. “Yeah, me neither,” he replied tightly.

“We need to find out how the hell this is happening. Cuts don’t just appear on people out of the blue. Especially not already stitched up.”

“It did all happen in my mind, right?” Bruce asked. It was becoming harder to stay awake, which was odd. During the last nightmare, he hadn’t experienced any symptoms of blood loss. Wasn’t this a nightmare, too? That would make the most logical sense. God, now he wasn’t sure what was real. “What if this isn’t actually happening either?”

Steve ran his free hand through his hair and sighed in frustration. “It’s as real for me as it is for you. Maybe they’re screwing with both of us right now.” He lifted the shirt to check the wounds.

“That’s reassuring, I suppose.”

“This isn’t, though.” Steve grimaced. “These stitches aren’t doing anything. If I can’t stop the bleeding soon, you’re going to be in serious trouble.” He stood up and walked over to one of the walls. “Hey!” he yelled, banging his fists against the wall. “We need medical attention, in here!”

An ear-splitting scream sounded in response.

Bruce froze. “Betty,” he whispered.

“What the hell is going on around here?” Steve muttered in shock, his fist frozen in mid strike.

“Betty!” Bruce rolled over onto his side, growling in pain. He went onto his hands and knees, frantically pushing himself up.

“Bruce, what—”

“They have her,” he gasped, stumbling towards the wall. Leaning heavily against it, he pounded on the wall and howled, “Let her go! Leave her alone!”

Another scream, this one louder.

“It was all real, Steve!” He slammed his fist against the metal. “They strapped me down and she cut me open. Why would she cut me open?”

Steve grabbed Bruce’s hand, forcing him to stop. “You need to calm down! You’re not thinking straight, Bruce.” He paused to glance around the room. “Something’s not right about any of this.”

Bruce tried to pull his arm out of Steve’s grip, causing Steve’s eyes to lock with his once more. “Hey. Hey! Listen to me! This isn’t real. Because she wouldn’thurt you, would she? And that means she’s not actually here.”

He leaned his head against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut. A third scream echoed and ended in a sob. “No. No, she wouldn’t. She didn’t. That’s just…that’s just how it felt. Because I didn’t want to love someone.”

Steve’s brows drew together. “What?

And suddenly the whole scene shifted. Steve was thrown against the opposite wall. He flailed, trying in vain to break invisible bonds. Betty stood in his place. Her white blouse was stained red, her arms dripped with blood. She reached out, placing a hand on Bruce’s cheek.

Her other hand placed something in Bruce’s, then wrapped around it to force him to continue holding it. With impossible strength, she forced Bruce’s arm to jerk forward. Bruce could only stare in shock at the knife in her stomach, at his fingers around the handle.

She pressed her cheek to his own and breathed deeply. “There’s no other way this ends, darling. You’ll kill me, eventually.”

As he tried to hold her close, tried to plead for forgiveness and make bullshit promises, he found himself on his knees and hugging the air.

So that was it, then. It had all been fake. Betty wasn’t here, she hadn’t hurt him, he hadn’t hurt her…or had he? Not intentionally, but he knew she would be better off if she’d never met him. Someday, she was going to get hurt, and it was going to be his fault. Someone was playing off of those fears.

He was vaguely aware that pain had stopped radiating from his chest, and the dizziness of blood loss was gone. Slumping against the wall, he brought his hands around his knees and let his head fall forward. It was a pose from his childhood, from when he’d tried to block out the world, block out himself. And he found it brought him some small comfort now.

When he decided to face the inevitable, Bruce lifted his head from his knees. Steve was sitting next to him, very close, but not quiet touching. He was staring at him though, eyes wide. There was concern there, but fear, too. And Bruce could understand that. Could understand it even if it wasn’t just fear that he’d be tormented next, but fear of Bruce himself.

Steve reached out slowly, giving Bruce time to object. He didn’t, and Steve wrapped a hand around his shoulders. “Are you okay?”

Bruce nodded. They both knew he was lying. Steve didn’t confront him about it, and Bruce couldn’t help but think that it was exceptionally nice of Steve to pretend he believed him.

They sat there in silence for a long time before Steve finally asked in a shaky voice, “What do you think they want with us?”

Bruce let out a relieved breath. He should have known Steve wouldn’t ask anything probing. He shrugged in answer. They wanted information, he knew that much. On what, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t trust his voice enough to explain that to Steve, though.

“Bruce?” Steve tried again.

But he didn’t want to talk. Didn’t really want Steve to be touching him right now, because he was toxic, and maybe now Steve knew it. Bruce didn’t want to hurt his feelings either, though, and he knew Steve was rattled, could really use someone to help distract him right now. But eventually, instinct won out, and he shrugged Steve’s arm off and stood. He placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder, squeezing gently, before walking to a corner and sitting down. Once again, he pulled his knees up and folded in on himself, his whole body one clenched fist.

Neither spoke or moved. There was no reason to. The others would come, eventually. For now, though, there was nothing they could do. They could only wait, and pray that no more nightmares became reality.


	2. The Mara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take a look at the tags, as they've changed. There are allusions to, and brief descriptions of, NON-CON IN THIS CHAPTER. On a lesser note, this chapter is unbetad, but I did try to edit it to the best of my ability. If you find any obvious spelling or grammar errors, feel free to point them out. I'll try to fix them as soon as possible.
> 
> I want to thank everyone who took the time to comment or leave kudos on the last chapter. I'm incredibly awful about responding to comments, mostly because I'm forgetful. When I finally remember to reply, it's been an awkwardly long amount of time since the comment was posted. Please know that I do cherish both your comments and kudos. Thank you, again.

Steve had taken to staring blankly at the wall before him. There was no telling how much time had passed, but it had certainly been long enough for fatigue to descend heavily, and for hunger to pound at him. His metabolism didn’t take kindly to extended periods without food. This was one of the, admittedly few, unfortunate side-effects of the serum.

Once, in passing, Bruce had expressed empathy in this. While his over-active metabolism was much more obvious after a transformation, it apparently continued to plague him even in his human form.

Steve wondered fleetingly if they ever planned to feed them. Whoever “they” were.

Movement caught his eye. In the far corner, Bruce was finally lifting his head from his knees. His eyes were wary and a bit wet, but Steve would pretend he hadn’t noticed. Other than sporadic shuddering, Bruce stayed still.

Steve resolved to let him be, but as Bruce stayed in the same position, staring at the same spot on the wall with a glazed look on his face, worry started to boil inside him.

“Bruce?” The word caught in his dry throat, making it come out soft and rough.

Bruce flinched at the noise. After a moment though, he pushed off the wall behind him and stood. Arms wrapped around himself, he walked over to Steve and sat down heavily next to him.

“How are we getting out of here?”

Bruce’s voice was eerily calm, face emotionless. The hardness of his eyes concerned Steve, and he wondered whether or not it was actually an improvement on the blank stare.

“We’ll think of something,” he assured him. And he truly believed that. He just hoped they’d think of it soon.

“Mm,” Bruce mumbled. He looked away, starring at the wall again. With a heavy sigh, he ran a hand through his hair.

“Steve,” he began. His voice was still smooth, but there was an edge to it, now. “What you saw…That’s…What I mean is,” he took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s the tip of the iceberg. If they do whatever that was again, it may be more disturbing.”

Bruce’s tone grew harder and more clipped as he went on. Steve heard in it what Bruce neglected to say with words: more disturbing meant more private. And if Steve had learned one thing about Bruce in the time they’d been on this team, it was that he hated to feel exposed.

“It’s alright, Bruce,” Steve assured him. “I’m not gonna…I mean, I’m not gonna hold anything they do against you. I’m not gonna blame you.”

The expression on Bruce’s face made anything else he’d meant to say wither up and die in his throat.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Captain.” He spit out the title with such bitterness that Steve could only stare at him.

“Have you ever wondered,” Bruce began, his voice dangerously soft, “Why the serum turned you into this, and turned me into a monster?”

“You’re not— ”

“I am. And that’s why.” Bruce let his eyes slip closed and his head fall against the wall. “That’s why, Steve. The serum’s supposed to reflect what’s inside. I’m working on accepting that. But this?” He opened his eyes again. Steve felt the air being punched out of his lungs. All of the fear and desperation that Steve had been expecting to see on Bruce’s face had finally appeared, and then some.

“I can’t deal with this.” His words caught in his throat and his face crumpled. “I’m not strong enough to let anyone see.”

“No one is,” Steve interrupted.

Bruce’s eyes snapped to his and he frowned, his brows pinching together.

Steve shrugged. “I’m scared, too,” he admitted. “You think I want you to see what’s up here?” he asked, tapping one of his temples.

A wry smile slowly twisted Bruce’s face. He shook his head.

“We’ve all done things we regret or are ashamed of,” Steve insisted. “And we all have demons. You don’t think I’ve seen my fair share of disturbing shit, Bruce?”

“I’m not saying you haven’t. I just…” He cast his gaze downwards. His head soon followed, coming forward to rest on his knees again.

It quickly became apparent to Steve that their conversation was over. They sat in silence for a while, and Steve mulled over whether or not he should ask the question on the tip of his tongue. He wasn’t sure if it talking about the incident would help or hinder Bruce. But as the silence stretched on into minutes, he decided Bruce was straight forward enough to tell him to piss off if it made things worse.

“Who was she?”

Bruce lifted his head and stared at him. Steve struggled not to look away, not to squirm under his razor sharp gaze.

“Her name is Betty,” he finally answered.

“So she’s still…”

“She’s still alive. No thanks to me.”

Silence threatened to settle again.

“Tell me about her.”

Bruce smiled. It was a small, tender thing that Steve hadn’t seen on him before. “She’s wonderful. We were engaged, before…”

“She left after that?”

Bruce laughed, and now the wry, self-deprecation was back with a vengeance. “She wanted to go on the run with me. I wouldn’t let her, though. It was too dangerous. I disappeared and was off the grid before she could do anything about it.”

“Why don’t you call her now?”

Bruce shook his head. “ _I’m_ still too dangerous.”

Steve didn’t say anything. It wasn’t the time nor the place. Still, he wondered what Peggy would have said if he’d asked her to leave the front. She’d have decked him, that’s what she would have done. He wondered if Betty had ever been angry at Bruce for taking the decision out of her hands.

Then he wasn’t wondering anything other than why he couldn’t move.

“Steve?” Bruce asked, his voice shaking.

“Can you move?”

“No, Steve I can’t move. I can’t.” Bruce’s breathing was becoming more rapid. Abruptly, it was controlled again, coming out in slow, measured breaths.

Steve found he could move his head, and he turned. Bruce’s eyes were closed and he was breathing in the same pattern he used when trying to contain the Hulk.

“We’re alright, Bruce. You’re alright,” Steve assured him.

Bruce squeezed his eyes shut even tighter and clenched his jaw. His breath picked up again and he growled in frustration, slamming his head against the wall behind him. And like flipping a switch, his breathing was back to normal again.

“I’m really not a fan of this,” he gritted out. “Not being able to move like this, I mean. It freaks me out.”

Steve wracked his brain for something comforting to say, but lost all train of thought as a portion of the wall lifted to create a door. A burly man and a young woman stepped through, and the door immediately shut. The man was tall with a muscular build. His clothes were all black, and there was nothing that identified him as part of an organization, like Hydra or AIM. The girl was also wearing all black, though her clothes sported tears and stains that looked an awfully lot like blood. Her eyes darted around, wide and skittish as an animal’s.

The man stopped so that he was looming over them, the woman standing behind him and shielded from view.

He grinned. “Doctor Banner. I believe you have something we’re looking for.”

“Information,” Bruce supplied. “I remember.”

“What do you want?” Steve demanded. The man paid him no mind, continuing to stare Bruce down. This must have been the man from Bruce’s first nightmare. “Who do you work for?” Steve tried again.

The man continued to ignore him and kneeled down in front of Bruce, grabbing Bruce’s jaw in one, large hand. “You’re going to tell us how you cracked the Captain’s genetic code.” Bruce tried to jerk his head back at that, but the man’s hold visibly tightened. “See,” he continued, bringing their faces even closer. “Your research’s been wiped. General Ross’s doing, obviously. So we had to go right to the source, pick that big brain of yours. After we take blood sample from Rogers, we’ll start the sequencing.” He smiled, barring his teeth more than anything. “Don’t you want to finish what you started, Doctor? If you cooperate, there may even be a team we could spare to help you research your own condition.” His thumb stroked Bruce’s cheek. “You could finally find your cure.”

“Sorry, not happening. Have fun with that, though. Don’t turn yourselves into gamma monsters.”

The man’s eyes flicked down to Bruce’s lips, and Steve could only watch in complete bafflement as his thumb traced the lower one tenderly.

“Oh Banner,” he murmured. “Such spite. We’ll fix that, hm? Beat it out of you.” He pressed his lips to Bruce’s own.

Bruce tried to jerk his head back, but he was helpless. Helpless to do anything but sit there and glare.

“Get off of him!” If Steve could just free himself, he could teach this man a lesson.

A small sob made Steve look away from the grotesque scene. The woman was holding herself tightly, eyes clenched shut and head turned away.

When Steve looked back, the man was releasing him. Bruce was grimacing. He spit onto the floor.

The man sighed deeply, his eyes closed. In the next breath, his eyes flashed open and he punched Bruce in the face.

The force knocked his head back onto the wall with a disgusting thud.

Steve struggled against the invisible bonds. He hated this, hated being forced to sit there and watch while someone was abused like this, manipulated. God, it hurt even more when it was a friend. Bucky lying on an examination table flashed unfairly through his brain.

A groan brought him immediately back to the present.

Bruce grunted again, his head lulling limply forward on his neck. “Really not convincing me to help,” he mumbled.

The man pulled Bruce’s head up by his hair. “Listen here, Banner,” he growled. “You’re going to learn to obey. Because all the shit you’ve been seeing? That’s not gonna go away. Not until we’ve broken you down and you’re begging me for mercy. Begging for it to stop. I want to hear you screaming my name, Banner.”

“And what name,” Bruce began, blood dripping down his cheek, “Would that be?”

The man grinned. “There are those manners.” He ruffled Bruce’s hair.

“Stop touching him,” Steve demanded.

Finally, _finally_ , the man took notice of Steve. “I’ll touch my property as I please, Captain,” he replied, his hands yanking Bruce’s hair and causing him to grunt.

The man gazed languidly down at Bruce’s wincing face. “Doctor Jackson,” he answered in a deadly soft voice. “When you scream, you’ll be saying Doctor Jackson.”

He let him go without warning.

As Doctor Jackson stood, he barked out, “Mara!”

The woman stepped out from behind him, her gaze on the floor and shoulders hunched over. He grabbed her shoulder, pushing her down on her knees in front of them. She went down much too naturally.

“See this?” he asked, shaking the woman.

Steve’s stomach dropped as she looked up at them and whimpered.

“This little monster,” Doctor Jackson continued, “Is what’s keeping you from moving right now.”

“She’s a woman,” Steve insisted. “Not a monster.”

Apparently, Doctor Jackson had gone back to ignoring him. “She’s going to make you live out your worst nightmares, Banner. Mara’s told me a bit about them already. Quite fucked up. Right, Mara?”

“Right, sir,” Mara whispered.

Doctor Jackson pulled medical gloves from his pocket. “Mara can hack parts of the brain,” he explained. He pulled out a syringe and tourniquet, then straightened Steve’s arm and tied the tourniquet around it. As hard as Steve tried, he couldn’t break his grasp, and Doctor Jackson was too far away to headbutt. “Unfortunately, she can only sense particularly strong emotions, and then find the memories associated with them. Makes her pretty fucking useless. Doesn’t it, Mara?”

Mara was staring at the ground, now. “It does, sir.”

“But,” he added, puncturing a vein and beginning to draw blood. Steve growled as the syringe filled with red. “She can also control the sensory and motor strips to an extent. Hence your paralysis. That, and her ability to take the things in your brain associated with strong, negative emotions and force you to live in your own, personal hell, makes her just useful enough to keep around. She can even keep your beast locked away, Doctor.”

Steve had never seen Bruce look so positively feral. But when he glanced down at the woman kneeling before him, his face softened.

“I’m not going to help you,” he said, still staring at Mara.

Doctor Jackson seemed sickeningly pleased at that. He pulled the needle from Steve’s vein and undid the tourniquet. He locked eyes with Bruce. “Then I look forward to hearing my name on your lips, Bruce.”

As he turned and stalked away, Mara stared up at Bruce. A shaky arm reached out towards his face.

“Don’t touch my blood,” he warned, his voice incredibly gentle.

Her hand froze inches above his face, and she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“Mara!” Doctor Jackson yelled, having finally reached the door. She scrambled up, rushing to him on shaky legs.

As the door shut, Steve found he could finally move again. He was checking Bruce’s cheek in an instant, assessing the damage.

Bruce waved his hand away. “I’m fine,” he assured him. In Steve’s opinion, he wasn’t fine. He looked exhausted and in need of some reassurance. There just wasn’t anything Steve could think to say.

~~~

Bruce was curled up on his side, trying to fall asleep when he saw him. He’d been waiting to see him since Mara and their captor had left, and, if he was honest with himself, that dreadful roiling anticipation in his gut was why he couldn’t sleep.

Standing up, Bruce realized he was as large as he remembered, which was odd. That’s when he noticed how much closer to the floor he himself was.

“Pulling out the big guns,” Bruce mumbled, his voice young and squeaky in his ears.

“Bruce?”

Bruce glanced over at a shocked Steve. He was still sitting against the wall, keeping first watch. It was obvious he was struggling against something, and Bruce realized he must not be able to move again.

The scene shifted.

He was hiding under the bed. He strained his ears, trying to hear over his heartbeat, and struggled to stop gasping out his breath. Momma told him to hide and not let Dad find him. He had to be quiet.

Footsteps echoed through the room. Bruce covered his head with his arms. He was going to be caught. Dad was going to find him, and he was going to—

Bruce cried out as a hand yanked his hair. He was dragged out into the open. Dad grabbed onto the front of his shirt and pulled him off the ground.

“Shitty hiding spot,” he growled. Bruce whimpered. Dad was tall, and strong, and smelled sour like the bottles he always drank.

Dad dropped him onto the floor. Bruce scrambled away, but Dad kicked him hard in the ribs, sending him sprawling and gasping for air again.

“Someone so smart should have been able to think of something better,” Dad spat.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce cried. Tears were falling fast now, and it was making it harder to breathe.

“Sorry?” Dad laughed. “Fucking pathetic. Get up! Fight like a man, dammit!”

Bruce cried harder, curling up into a ball to protect his stomach.

Dad kicked him again. “I said stand up!”

Bruce tried, he really did, but his legs weren’t working right, and he was stuck on his stomach, and he was crawling on the ground, crawling on thousands of little legs. Dad was throwing things at him, screaming mean words like “freak” and “monster”.

It was like that book. He was in the book that Momma had read to him. He was a monster, a bug, and Dad was trying to kill him, throwing red apples at him. The apples hurt. They hurt real badly, and there was nowhere to hide. He was too big.

And then he wasn’t anymore, but Dad was on top of him, sitting on him so he couldn’t get up, and he was soft again and even more vulnerable. He punched his chest, punched him across the face, then Momma was there, trying to pull him off, but he just pushed Momma over.

Bruce screamed, but Dad put a hand around his throat. No screaming. Screaming was bad. The cops would come and he’d be taken away from Momma.

Spots took over his vision and his chest burned. It burned so much, but Daddy wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe! He clawed at the hand around his throat.

And it was gone. All of it. He was laying on the ground of the cell and trying to catch his breath. Steve was sitting next to him, his face tight and biting his lip.

Bruce couldn’t bear to look at him. He curled into himself, closing his eyes and focusing on breathing. But air just wasn’t making it into his lungs. He’d dealt with this demon, put it to bed, but he could still feel Brian’s hands around his throat, and now it was impossible to ignore the manic ache of helplessness he’d learned to carry around through childhood. And Steve. Steve was there, watching him struggle just to fucking breathe. He felt blood rise to his face in shame.

“I saw.”

Steve’s voice was laden with guilt and pity, and Bruce didn’t want to hear it. He grabbed at his head, effectively covering his face from Steve while also trying to squeeze out the unwanted memories.

 _“Worthless. Monster. Freak,”_ Bruce cringed, pulling harder at his hair. _“Your own dad didn’t even want you. He hated you. That’s why he killed Mom.”_

“Fuck,” Bruce muttered. “No. No, no, no, no.” The word became a mantra.

_“He was trying to get to you, and you know it. You were the one who was supposed to die. She died for you, and you don’t even want this damn life, do you? How many times have you tried to kill yourself? How many, Bruce?”_

“Too many,” he whispered.

“ _I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,”_ Bruce thought. And he was so fucking sorry, because the shittiest thing of all was that, despite everything, part of him still wanted to die.

“Bruce,” Steve coaxed. “Bruce, he’s not here. It was another dream, and he can’t hurt you like that anymore. You’re strong enough to fight back.” Steve placed a hesitant hand on Bruce’s shoulder, and though physical contact should have made him shudder, his oversensitive nerves craved more of it. He placed his own hand over Steve’s and clutched at it.

“Shit, Steve,” Bruce gasped out. His breathing was coming easier now with the comforting weight of Steve’s hand to ground him. “I’m…I’m sorry you had to see that.”

Steve squeezed his shoulder. “God, don’t apologize. Not for this.”

Bruce pushed himself up off the floor with a muffled groan. He let his head fall against the wall, and was relieved when Steve wrapped an arm around his shoulders. And God, wasn’t this pathetic, too? Because Bruce had read Captain America comics as a kid, he’d watched the cartoons and collected the cards. He’d sat in his closet with a Captain America action figure while Dad drank until he was dead to the world more times than he could count. He’d imagined Captain America would show up someday and save him, defeat the bullies at home and at school. And in the wake of that last nightmare, that little boy in him was still seeking comfort from Steve.

“I, uh.” For some reason, he felt like Steve deserved to know. “I used to read your comics when I was a kid.”

Steve ran his free hand through his hair and bit his lip. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Bruce paused, running a hand down his face. “They always showed you standing up for the little guys. Beating bullies, and…” he trailed off, not sure where he was going with this in the first place.

“It’s alright, Bruce. I get it.”

But Steve seemed uncomfortable now. He was stiff, and leaning away from Bruce ever so slightly, though he had yet to move his arm, and Bruce was sure he was pulling away subconsciously.

_You just have to fuck up everything, don’t you? Can’t do anything right._

“Sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--”

“Damn it, Robert, what did I say about apologizing?”

Bruce’s eyes snapped to what should have been the corner of the cell.

It was raining heavily in the cemetery, and until now, he’d been alone. This was the last time he’d be able to visit Mom, he knew that. One way or another, he wouldn’t be able to come back to Ohio. So he’d kneeled in front of her grave and let his tears mingle with the rain. He traced her name over and over again with a numb finger, read the scripture on her tombstone. 1 Corinthians 13:4-5. A laugh burbled in his throat. He choked it off with a sob. He never was able to forgive his aunt for putting that on there. It was fitting, sure, but the irony was just too cruel.

Irony. If he had to sum up his life with one word, he’d choose “ironic”.

It was his fault. His fault she was in the ground beneath him. He knew that. Brian was equally to blame, but it would always be partly his fault.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I am. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Damn it, Robert. What did I say about apologizing? Didn’t I teach you anythin’, boy?”

Bruce scrambled to his feet, turning around as fast as possible on the slick grass. As Brian stalked towards him, he backed away to the left of the tombstone.

The car was cold, and Momma hadn’t grabbed his jacket. They couldn’t go back inside, though. Dad might catch them, and Momma was finally taking them away. She promised he’d never have to hide again, that they’d be staying with Momma’s sister, and he’d be able to play with Cousin Jennifer, and everything would be okay.

Momma shut the trunk and Dad opened the door. Momma ran to the driver’s seat, Dad ran faster. They were fighting, yelling, Dad was trying to get to the car. To get to Bruce. But Momma wouldn’t let him, and he was hitting her, kicking her, pulling her by her hair until she was screaming and on the pavement. She shoved at him, but he was too strong.

And Bruce sat in the car, paralyzed. So scared, so damn scared, because there was blood all over Momma, more than ever before. He tried to unbuckle his car seat, but his fingers were shaking so badly, and he couldn’t see through the tears.

Dad grabbed Momma by her hair and slammed her skull on the ground. He kept hitting her, but Momma didn’t move again.

Bruce couldn’t breathe. He was outside of the car. There was blood all over the ground, in Momma’s hair, reaching out to him. And Dad was talking to her, telling her to get up. Telling her that this wasn’t funny. And Bruce was running to her, grabbing her arm, shaking her, screaming, crying. Dad pushed him away, and Bruce sobbed, arms red, eyes red, everything red. Until it wasn’t. Everything turned green.

He watched Brian reach out for him in the cemetery. Watched him grab him, take a swing at him. He tried to run away, he did, but Brian latched onto his arm and wouldn’t let go.

“You took her away from me,” Brian growled. “I loved her, and you took her away.”

And everything started to turn green. He couldn’t let that happen. Not here, not now, never again if he could help it. He lashed out blindly, trying to stop the beast coming at him and the beast inside him. He made contact, and something yelled, Bruce heard a thud, and then nothing.

He kept his eyes shut, calming himself down, wrapping his arms around himself and shivering. When the green faded from behind his eyes, he finally opened them.

Despite the rain, some of Brian’s blood was still on Mom’s tombstone.

Bruce stared. He stared at Brian’s blank eyes and unmoving body. He stared at the red being washed off of grey concrete. He stared at his hands. Hands that contained no trace of green.

Bruce felt tears track down his cheeks as he stared at his hands in the dry cell.

It was a lie. A lie, a lie, a lie. He would have remembered killing his own father. But Bruce was a coward, and he ran from things. Oh did he run. And with helpless pain tearing at his skin, his stomach, his eyes, he knew with utmost certainty that his brain would have surely run from this.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe, his throat was too small and tight. Something touched him and he flinched, curled into himself and wrapped his murdering hands around his chest.

_“You killed him. You’re a killer. The Hulk is part of you, Bruce, but it’s just the scared, little kid hiding in a closet from a monster, hoping his Captain America action figure will protect him. He’s been there since Mom died. Maybe even before. You know that, deep down, you know that.”_

A strangled, angry sob managed its way through his throat.

_“So if Hulk isn’t the monster, if the Hulk is just the scared, abused kid, that means you’re the monster. The man is the monster.”_

God, no. Please, no.

 _“Oh, Bruce.”_ His self-abusing thoughts sounded patronizingly saccharine. _“Didn’t you read_ Frankenstein _in grade school? You should have known better. The man, the person who gave life to the so called monster, is the true beast. You should have known Hulk wasn’t a reflection of your potential to become a monster. He’s the reflection of your grotesque past. Just a child afraid of being hurt. And you tried to kill him, tried to lock him up just like Brian. Just like Ross.”_

He couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear anything but the blood gushing through his ears and his own internal monologue.

_“The Hulk doesn’t know any better. But you, Bruce? You’re a man. An adult. There’s no excuse for you. You killed your father. You killed a man in cold blood, and then didn’t have the decency to remember it.”_

Something touched him again, and he cried out, flinched away. He was petrified of touching it, scared he’d break it, scared he’d kill it, but it wouldn’t stop touching him, and the world was tilting and blurring, and he was falling, falling, falling.

_“Then you tried to kill the Hulk. Tried to kill that poor, abused boy. You didn’t even classify it as murder, did you?”_

He hadn’t. He’d tried to fix himself, to kill the Hulk, and had only thought of it as finding a cure.

_“Then you tried to kill yourself. And worst of all, Banner, you did that with no regard to that little boy.”_

Oh, God. Killing himself would kill Hulk, and he couldn’t even have that much, now. Not with this knowledge shoved so irrefutably into his face.

The world abruptly stilled. He was shaking uncontrollably, but he could see again, hear again.

All he wanted was a gun, because right now, God, right now he could conceivably end it all, with the Hulk locked up as he was. But Hulk…He couldn’t murder a child. Even if that child was a remnant of his own, fractured psyche. Even if that child had grown up to be a man who deserved to die.

He couldn’t do it. He owed it to the world to rid it of himself, but he couldn’t bear to add another innocent death to his toll.

Weak. Useless. He was so goddam useless.

“Can you hear me?”

And like that, Bruce remembered Steve was there. Watching. The expression on his face told Bruce everything. He knew. He’d seen. He was disturbed, though Bruce knew he was trying to hide it. There was sadness there, pity, and misplaced sympathy.

“Bruce…” Steve faltered. Even the great Captain America seemed at a loss for words.

Dropping his head into his hands, Bruce forced out a shaky exhale. He gripped at his hair. Restless anguish was roaring in his mind, overtaking any rational train of thought.

This was Brian’s fault. All his fault. It all started with him, and everything stolen from Bruce thereafter was a direct result of his father’s atrocities.

The fucker had deserved to die. But now, now Brian had claimed one more thing. His death had claimed Bruce’s humanity.

His father had won.

Bruce threw his head back and growled out a wordless yell. He could feel overwhelming anger flooding through his veins for the first time in so, so long. The simmer had turned to a boil and began to overflow, but Bruce was here to ride it out, and there was no Hulk to take over.

His vision was hazy again, clouded. When it cleared, he couldn’t fully remember what he’d done, but his hands ached and he was out of breath. He remembered this from before the accident. More proof that Hulk had always been a part of him. He’d become so angry, so damn angry, and he’d lose it, barely remembering anything that had happened. Like someone else was driving his body. When he came to, there were always broken things strewn all over. It had happened often when he was a kid, before he’d learned to never be that angry.

There were few things that could set him off once he was in college, and life…life had started to be good, started to feel right. He didn’t have many opportunities to grow so angry.

Then Hulk came into the picture, and that anger resurfaced, became a struggle again.

Jesus, he was so fucked up.

He sank to his knees, staring at bloodied knuckles that matched the red speckling various parts of the wall. A small part of his brain informed him that his left ring finger probably had a boxer’s fracture.

_“That’s what you get when you pound at steel fucking walls like a berserker, you moron.”_

“Are you done?”

Bruce let out a laugh that choked off into a sob. Steve’s voice was sincere, nonjudgmental, and that…that drove him up a fucking wall. Yet, the little boy in him sighed in relief that Captain America didn’t seem to be disappointed in him.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered through his too small throat. “Sorry.” His head fell into aching hands. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

He heard Steve shift, heard his footsteps, and the press of his shoulder against his own when he finally sat back down. “You can’t blame yourself for that, Bruce. I saw what happened, and despite whatever you’re thinking, it’s clear to me that it was self-defense.”

Bruce barked out another laugh, this one both dry and raw. “Part of me wanted him dead. Part of me always wanted him dead.”

“Yeah, well, I only saw what he did, I didn’t live it, and part of me is glad he’s dead.”

Bruce just shook his head.

Slowly, tentatively, Steve wrapped an arm around him and pulled him to his side. Bruce was exhausted, so damn exhausted, and so he let his head rest on Steve’s shoulder, let himself be consoled. It was pathetic, sure, and undignified, but he was too tired to care.

Steve was staring straight ahead, jaw set and mouth pressed in a grim line. “We’re going to be alright,” he assured him. “We’ll get out of this, and they’ll get what’s coming to them, Bruce. I promise.”

Closing his eyes, Bruce nodded. He didn’t entirely believe that, but he let himself take comfort in Captain America’s strong presence. Like so many times before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took way too long to post. I blame that mostly on college and work. A full-time course load on top of a part-time job doesn't always leave much time for writing, unfortunately. I'm on break now, and am hoping to have chapter three posted in the next two weeks.


	3. The Life of Lady Lazarus in Prose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter has been done for a while. Real life kicked my ass, and continues to kick my ass. I also convinced myself this story was bad, and that I shouldn't keep writing it. But I'm a stubborn person, so I'm going to finish it anyway. To anyone still reading this, I'm sorry that I left you high and dry.
> 
> Head the tags, as they've changed. WARNING There is a suicidal child in this chapter.
> 
> I don't own any recognizable characters, nor do I own the rights to Lady Lazarus, by Sylvia Plath.

Bruce scrunched his eyes closed even tighter. He didn’t want to wake up, but he seldom gets what he wants. The dry feeling of thirst pricked his throat while dull aches reverberated in his stomach. Unfortunately, his mind wouldn’t let him cast aside those sensations and go back to sleep.

He’d gone much longer without food or water while on the run, but it felt worse than normal. Maybe that was because of Mara, maybe it was because Avenger’s Tower had made him too comfortable. Being forced to question reality resulted in a flash of panic that had him forcing his eyes open. He needed to know he was in the here and now.

Pain flared behind his eyes. The lights were so bright, and his head was pounding. There were also knots in his neck and back from falling asleep sitting up. He was reminded of how _old_ he was by these aches and pains rippling through him.

He was disoriented, mind addled by hunger and thirst made worse by his fast metabolism. Maybe that’s why he didn’t realize right away that his head was resting on Steve Rogers’s shoulder. Bruce grunted, his sore neck creaking as he lifted his head. Steve was staring at him, and though his face was blurry, Bruce could see how haggard his eyes were. He was smiling, of course, trying to hide his discomfort.

“How—" The word stuck in Bruce’s throat. He cleared it and tried again. “How long was I asleep?”

Steve shrugged, and it jostled him just a little. Bruce couldn’t help but wince as cold aches made him shiver. Steve was apologizing before Bruce regained his bearings, but all Bruce could do was shake his head. There was definitely something more to his aching than hunger or thirst. It was probably artificial, probably created by Mara, and that pissed him off.

He felt anger flare and the Hulk growl.

Bruce froze. Shock must have been written all over his face, because Steve was asking him what’s wrong, but Bruce couldn’t answer. Hulk was angry. Really, _really_ angry. And Bruce couldn’t find a hand-hold to latch onto. Hulk was screaming at him, and Bruce suddenly didn’t t feel cold at all. There was fire, poison, in his veins. Bruce wanted to let the Hulk out so he and Steve could escape, but not like this. If Hulk forced his way out right now, he’d be mindless, he’d hurt Steve. _Bruce_ would hurt Steve.

He curled in on himself, clutching his hair.

_“Hulk. Hulk, stop!”_

But all he heard in return was Hulk growling. They’d been hurt, so hurt, in this place, and he was mad. He wanted to find Dad and kill him, make him hurt. Make the new Bad Man hurt, the one who thought he could take whatever he wanted. And the puny girl that kept Hulk from protecting himself. He wanted to tear this whole goddamn place apart, and no one could stop him. Especially not puny Banner.

Bruce felt his muscles grow and his bones break. He heard himself scream in pain.

The next thing he was aware of was how badly his body hurt. There was nothing other than that to latch onto. He was floating in a void. A dark place without feeling, sight, sound, or smell. He could taste, though. He tasted the bitter aftershocks of anger stuck in his throat. He tasted tangy drops of violence on his tongue. He tasted sour regret and self-hatred weakly caged behind his teeth and lips.

Slowly, so slowly, other sensations came back to him and the phantom tastes left. All except for that coppery tang on his tongue. Bricks and wood bits were poking at his sides and back. He was lying in a warm puddle of something thicker than water.

He didn’t want to open his eyes. But Bruce knew better after so many years of this. Of waking up to destruction and pain and violence. He opened his eyes and forced himself upright.

The building was gone, and he was resting in the rubble of his humanity. Blood was painting what were once walls. So much blood. So, so much red. Steve’s body was coated in it, lying right in front of him. Bruce wasn’t sure where the Captain’s head was.

All of the tastes in his mouth were coming up at once, and he was retching.

_You killed him. I told you, you’d kill him. I told you, I told you, but you didn’t listen. Count yourself lucky Steve was the only one around. You should have left. You should have left the team. What is wrong with you? How could you believe you could do good in the world?_

_You like killing people._

_You do, Bruce._

_You liked killing your father, didn’t you? Part of you was happy._

Bruce was sobbing.

“Yes.”

_Sick. You’re sick._

“Yes.”

_You’re a killer._

“I know,” he choked out.

“No,” his mind said, and Bruce swore he heard it spoken out loud. Somewhere to his right.

A man stepped out of a shadow cast by a beam.

“You don’t know,” the man, himself, said. “Hulk didn’t do this. You did.”

There was something wrong about his double, something off, but he couldn’t figure out what. He didn’t care, not really. He needed answers.

He pinched his brows together, making his headache worse. “I couldn’t have. I’m not strong enough.”

“You’re the one who caged Hulk up like a monster,” his double knelt down so they were face to face. “He was just a child. And he was only allowed to wake up when you were in pain or danger. Of course he throws tantrums when he’s out. He thinks he needs to in order to survive.”

Bruce was struck speechless. He couldn’t deny it. Even though he now knew this wasn’t real, he knew everything that was being said was the truth.

He stared into his double’s radiant green eyes and nodded.

His double patted his sopping, red hair, and Bruce’s eyes closed against the contact. A hand latched onto his arm, forcing him to stay in the present, forbidding him from blocking it all out. He swallowed down his pain with a wet noise.

When he opened his eyes, it was Doctor Jackson he was staring at. The man continued to stroke his head.

“I need you to tell me what you know about the serum, Bruce,” he murmured. “So I can protect the world from men like you.”

“I can’t,” he whispered, trying to pull away. He was so weak after a transformation, so vulnerable. He couldn’t break Doctor Jackson’s grip on his arm.

“You will,” Jackson hissed. He pulled his hand from Bruce’s hair, bringing a finger to the broken skin on his cheek. It should have healed when he turned into the Hulk, but it was still bleeding. On Jackson’s fingers, Bruce’s own blood mingled with the life of others that had been coating his hair. “If you don’t,” Jackson continued, “We’ll accidentally create more of you.” He brought his finger to his lips, licking a strip up it.

Bruce winced, knowing what the poison would do to his body. Jackson shivered, his eyes fluttering closed. When they opened, they were glowing green.

He smirked, even as his muscles bulged and his bones cracked, Doctor Jackson smirked. His growing, changing arms latched onto Bruce’s shoulders and shook him. It made Bruce’s teeth rattle, but it was nothing compared to when Doctor Jackson, now the size of the Hulk and almost as green, slammed his head against the ground.

Doctor Jackson’s eyes held none of the fear Bruce felt when he changed. They held only malice. Only anger. Only bloodlust.

He lifted Bruce up and slammed him back down onto the ground.

And Bruce’s world went black.

~~~

It was three in the morning. Bruce was staring out the window from his place on the bed, a sheet covering the knees he’d pulled to his chest. Tomorrow, Aunt Elaine was sending him to a shrink. Shrinks were for broken people, dangerous people, people like his father.

He wasn’t like his father.

He didn’t need a shrink.

Or…or maybe he did.

Aunt Elaine was sending him to a shrink because he’d snapped at some bullies. Bruce didn’t really remember it, himself. They were picking on him, teasing him like normal, when one of the boys had grabbed his shoulder. He’d squeezed so hard, and it reminded him of Dad.

Bruce didn’t remember anything that happened after that. One minute, his entire body was frozen in fear over a not so distant memory, and the next, he was at Aunt Elaine’s house.

The boy who’d grabbed him, he was pretty sure his name was Charlie, apparently came home with a broken wrist. And he claimed Bruce had given it to him. Charlie’s mother called their teacher, and the next thing Bruce knew, the school was forcing his aunt to seek out professional help.

When Aunt Elaine first told him he needed to see a psychiatrist, Bruce had assumed it was because he kept having nightmares. Most nights he woke up screaming. He didn’t think anyone had heard, but obviously she must have. He promised it wouldn’t happen anymore, begged her not to send him to a shrink. When he saw the shock on her face, he realized he’d been wrong. And that information was all the push Aunt Elaine needed to send Bruce to a psychiatrist.

So, Bruce was broken. He’d hurt somebody and didn’t even remember it. He constantly woke up screaming. He had many moments where he swore he could see his father hiding in the shadows, or his mother’s body on the floor. It always turned out to be his eyes playing tricks on him.

Maybe it would have been better if he hadn’t been born.

The stars stared down at him uncaringly, and Bruce couldn’t help but look away. He nuzzled his cheek on his knee, a sick, swelling weight expanding in his stomach.

In his eleven years of life, few good things had happened to him. The things that were good, living with Aunt Elaine, Uncle Morris, and his cousin, Jennifer, seemed doomed to be tainted by his past. He knew he was safe in his bed, but his mind tormented him with images of his father. School was laughably easy, but every time he earned an A, he could hear his father yelling at him for being smart. And every time he thought he was starting to heal, he apparently blacked out and hurt people.

It’d be better if he was gone.

Actually, it’d be better if he was dead.                                                                                        

Bruce fell back onto his bed and pulled the covers over his head. Tears trailed down his face, and all he could hear over his hitching, little sobs was the mantra of _you should die, you should die, you should die, you should…_

~~~

Bruce was thirteen and wondering if things were ever going to improve. He was still being bullied at school every day, and his teachers didn’t care. He didn’t want to black out like he had years ago. He didn’t want to hurt someone.

But that wasn’t quite true. Because he did want to hurt the bullies. He wanted to stop the swirlies and beatings, to keep them from stealing his backpack and taking anything they pleased. He wanted to twist Johnny’s wrist until it snapped like Charlie’s must have.

He was sick. And no one else could see it anymore. He’d learned to stay silent during a nightmare, and to keep his face nonchalant when he thought he saw his father hiding in the shadows. He’d learned to let bullies do what they would with him and not fight back. He always made sure to ask them to stop one or two times, because that seemed more normal than doing nothing at all. He’d also learned to keep his grades perfect and to stamp down on the fear that always threatened to surface when Uncle Morris looked over report cards at the dinner table.

The shrink he’d seen two years ago had declared that he was perfectly normal. In his opinion, the incident was a classic case of “boys will be boys”, and that Bruce most likely had suffered some sort of head injury during the tussle. Aunt Elaine was relieved, but Bruce knew he hadn’t suffered a head injury. He’d been perfectly healthy when he found himself suddenly at home.

Since then, Bruce lived from bad day to bad day. His good days were lived out in fear of the return of the bad ones. And when they did return, it took all of his energy to put on a normal face for the rest of the world. He didn’t want to be broken, but there was no way to fix something that wasn’t built to accommodate the right parts. The next best solution was to pretend everything was fine. But at night, when he was alone, his thoughts became darker. And tonight? Tonight he was convinced that this was as good as his mental state was going to get.

It wasn’t good enough.

Bruce was thirteen. He was old enough now to know what suicide was. He was old enough to know how to do it. As he crept to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet, his heart throbbed in his ears despite the voice in his head cheering _yes, yes, yes!_ He reached inside, standing on the stepstool Jennifer used to brush their teeth. In his hand he held a pill bottle. He hadn’t turned on the light, couldn’t bring himself to do it, really. But he was fairly sure it was Uncle Morris’s blood pressure medicine.

_Doesn’t really matter. Just eat the whole bottle. If you eat the whole bottle, it’s bound to kill you no matter what._

No. No, he didn’t want to die. Did he? Not really. But why live?

_Exactly. Mom’s dead. Jennifer doesn’t want you around anymore. Uncle Morris has always hated having you around, you know. You heard him telling Aunt Elaine she had to be careful around you right after the Black Out. And Aunt Elaine? She doesn’t really love you. She loved her sister. That’s why she puts up with you. No one wants you here._

That was true. All of it. And it seemed, in the end, his only purpose was to die.

Bruce uncapped the bottle and poured a number of pills into his mouth. He filled the cup on the counter with water to help him get his medicine down, then proceeded to take more.

There wasn’t much left in the bottle, and Bruce figured he’d taken enough pills, now. He put the bottle back and shut the cabinet, stepped off of the stool, and padded back to his bedroom. He felt nothing. Processed nothing. It was like he was seeing himself from the outside. This wasn’t the first time he’d felt like this, but he hated that his last moments on Earth would be experienced in this hazy, distanced state.

Bruce climbed into bed and pulled the covers over himself. His heart pounded in his ears and tears rolled down his cheeks. He wanted to stay up and watch the stars. But, if his aunt and uncle found him the next morning in his bed, maybe they’d think he died in his sleep. It might upset them to think he’d killed himself. They might blame themselves. It wasn’t their fault, though. It was Bruce’s. Well, that was only partly true. Bruce might have been born broken, but his father had made sure he stayed that way.

If there was a heaven, he hoped he’d get to see Momma.

~~~

Bruce hadn’t tried to commit suicide in three years. His first and last attempt was botched when he accidentally took a ton of calcium pills instead of medicine meant to lower blood pressure. He’d spent the night throwing up into a trash can, but other than that, he’d been fine. And he took it as a sign that he should keep living.

Now, he was sixteen and hated everyone and everything. He was angry. So, so angry, and at this point, he might as well embrace the anger. It wasn’t his fault he was so fucked up. It wasn’t his fault he was so damn broken. The universe hated him. His classmates tormented him verbally and physically for always wrecking the grade curve, and his teachers thought he was a smart ass. It didn’t help that he never participated in class, but still managed to turn in stellar work.

Long story short, there was always another bully around the corner of his life.

_First your own dad, and now practically everyone you meet. Face it, no one wants you here._

Bruce was done. He never asked to exist, and now he’d decided it was time to return the ill-fitting gift. As the homemade bomb next to him neared zero, he felt again that if the people in his high school were going to make him feel so shitty he finally decided to off himself, it was only fair to take them down with him. He was in the school’s boiler room, under his physics class. That was the worst one, the one with the most bullies and a teacher obviously overcome by jealousy.

_12, 11, 10_

Maybe he shouldn’t have done this here. He didn’t actually want to kill people. Did he?

_8, 7, 6_

Did he really want to die?

_4, 3_

Yes. He did.

_2, 1_

Bruce closed his eyes.

_0_

~~~

He knew it was probably pointless. That’s why he was in the Canadian wilderness. There was no one around for miles, so if this went wrong, the Other Guy shouldn’t be able to hurt anyone.

The weight of the gun was comforting. After the faulty bomb, he’d fantasized about a simple suicide whenever he got low.

He gazed blearily around. There was snow for miles. White in every direction. Even the sky was solid white, and it was incredibly disorienting. Bruce felt that too familiar haze begin to overtake him as his head spun and his knees gave out. He could see himself load the gun, but he didn’t feel it. He was pretty sure he wasn’t giving his body conscious commands, and that was all the affirmation he needed that not just his spirit wanted to die, but his flesh, too.

Bruce pressed the gun to his temple and caressed the trigger. If this went right, he hoped there was no heaven.

He didn’t want his mother to see what he’d become.

~~~

Bruce woke up in his bed at Avengers Tower. There was sweat beading down his face and plastering his shirt to his back. He was panting, gasping, and he knew this must've been another illusion. Except, he was pretty sure nothing was amiss, this time. It felt like he’d just woken up from a long, convoluted nightmare.

He threw the covers off and stepped onto the floor.

The room vanished, leaving behind swirling tendrils of darkness. He was panicking, breathing picking up, hearing and sight working overtime to find anything other than the sound of his own breath.

Something creaked behind him and he froze.

Dad was pushing him down onto the floor, onto the broken beer bottles. Searing pains shot up and down his nerves, as glass shards dug into his hands and knees.

There was darkness again, and before he could register anything, he felt an aching punch to the face.

A bully was throwing him to the ground, then tugging on his hair. The bully was still on him, while Dad began kicking him in the stomach, leaving him wheezing.

“You’re a monster!” Ross growled. Lightening cracked across his face, and now it was Dad grabbing him by the front of his shirt and hissing whisky tinged words, “You’re a freak, Robert. A monster!”

Another flash of lightening, now accompanied by thunder. The rumbling was overwhelming, overshadowing all other senses with a sound so reminiscent of bullets. Bruce instinctively ducked, covering his head.

When he finally uncurled, Steve was staring down at him. His lips were downturned, eyes narrowed in disgust. The rest of the team stood behind him, similar expressions on their faces. Tony couldn’t even bare to look at him, disappointment written in every line of his body.

“We never should have trusted you,” Steve spat out.

Bruce tried to push a mangled “sorry” from his throat, but there was dust surrounding him, choking him. Cold gusts of air made him shiver, and he realized his clothing was in tatters.

Steve grabbed his shoulders, forcing him down, putting rough, biting, gamma inhibiting handcuffs around his wrists.

“You’re going to the Cube. Where you belong.”

His brain was screaming at him to fight back, but he just didn’t have it in him, anymore. How could he deny what he was? If Steve thought he was a monster, then it must be true.

A gust of wind picked the dust up in an enormous, grey and brown cloud. When it settled, the team was gone. There was rubble everywhere. Half destroyed buildings sagged down all around him. Oozing, hideous blood poured like a stream from a nearby pile. Steve’s shield was broken in half at the base. Tony’s gauntlet was reaching out from beneath the rocks. There was a dark haired woman staring unseeingly at him, face horribly slack and with half of her skull crushed in.

The scene grew dark as Bruce’s body fought his mind to move. He needed to run away from Betty’s screaming gaze, the last remnants of his team. His friends. His family.

Lightning flashed once more, and the ruble turned to concrete, the body soaked in blood now his mother’s.

He woke up in the holding cell and couldn’t move.

He couldn’t open his eyes, but he could hear. He heard Steve being beaten and his cries for Bruce to do something. He heard the beginnings of a dissection. He heard every scream as they cut into his friend’s body, and the horrid sound of a saw as they broke through his ribcage to see if the bones would heal themselves.

He remembered how badly that hurt.

Hands were suddenly all over him, cutting, slicing, cracking open his ribs and piercing a lung with a steel rod. Sterile, white clothed doctors spoke in monotones as they watched the lung try to repair itself around metal.

Bruce couldn’t breathe. His head was forced down and his eyes forced open so that he had no choice but to look at the open cavity of his chest. Blood was bubbling around his lung.

His body looked broken. Pathetic. Torn.

Why wouldn’t it just give up and let him die?

His vision was overtaken by dark splotches until there was nothing left to see. When he woke up, the “facility” was long gone, and Bruce knew the faculty must have been destroyed along with it. The scene went dark once again.

~~~

Bruce was in agony when he regained consciousness. That’s how he knew Jackson was still fucking with him.

His vision swam before him, but he could make out Steve by his side, hands hovering over the gash along his torso. Bruce wanted to say something about how Jackson seemed to love cutting his chest open, but he was starting to hack up blood as it was.

Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure this was actually Steve. This could all still be in his head. His mind reeled. It felt like he was breathing out of a tube. Something was trying to break out of the deep slice in his chest. He thought it might be his heart.

The gash was gone. He was suddenly standing upright. And Steve was sending a cascade of blows to his stomach, chest, and face.

He was dazed, could barely register anything other than the throbbing ache that was his body, the exhaustion in his bones.

Somehow, he managed to hear Steve snarl, “You’re a monster. You never should’ve replicated Erksine’s formula.” Steve paused, one fist still clenched by Bruce’s face, the other holding Bruce up by the front of his shirt. “You probably got it right. The serum. It enhanced the good and the bad in you. There’s so much bad in you, Bruce.”

He dropped him. Bruce found himself on his hands and knees, panting to regain his breath and ignore Steve’s words. But he was so tired. So, so tired. And Steve was only saying what he himself had already thought. What he’d already feared.

When he sat back on his knees, there was a mirror in front of him. He expected to see dead eyes and blood. What was staring back at him was the visage of his father. Bruce’s heart leapt in his throat as he flinched back. The image did the same.

He thought there was wetness on his cheeks as he tried to back away. Steve had a hold of his shirt collar, now. He was dragging him forward.

_“Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God. If it’s true, kill me. Kill me now. Kill me, please.”_

_You know it’s true, Bruce._

Was it Steve talking, or the voice in his head? Bruce couldn’t tell anymore.

Steve threw him into the mirror, and Bruce passed through the cruel glass.

~~~

He was back in the cell, on his knees with his arms crossed over a heaving chest.

“Dying,” Jackson paused, circling around Bruce, “Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.” He bent down in front of Bruce, grabbing his jaw so he was forced to look him in the eye. He continued, whispering in Bruce’s ear, “I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I’ve a call…”

Bruce swallowed thickly, eyes pressed closed against this maybe reality. “For the eyeing of my scars there is a charge,” he whispered. “For the hearing of my heart,” he broke off in a sob, his voice trembling when he continued, “It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge, For a word or a touch or a bit of blood. Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.”

Jackson let go of his jaw, only to snatch his hand and press something cold and metal into his palm.

“So, so, Herr Doctor!” He yelled, voice booming in the confined space, “So, so Herr Enemy! _You_ are my opus! _You_ are my valuable, The pure, gold baby that melts to a shriek! I love how you shriek for me, Banner!”

Bruce resolutely kept his eyes closed. But he couldn’t silence his shaky, pitiful breathes. The cold thudding of Jackson’s footsteps signaled his retreat. The door opened, and then shut once more.

Silence.

“End it, Banner.”

Ah, but it was too good to last.

_But it could. It could last forever._

_“I can’t. I can’t kill Hulk. I can’t leave Steve alone. I can’t.”_

_Steve doesn’t need you. You’re only holding him back. Without Hulk, you’re collateral damage._

“If you kill yourself, Hulk will be out permanently. You’ll never hurt anyone again, and Hulk can learn, grow, help the Avengers. You can rid the world of your evil.”

Silence. Nothing. In his head or in reality. Everything was frozen. This was the chance he’d been waiting for possibly his entire life. Realistically, at least since Mom was killed.

He wanted to be smart about this, wanted to find out why Jackson would let him kill himself before giving him the information he wanted, but God, he didn’t care! He wanted out.

The pain, the sadness, and _anger_ , they all stopped. He felt nothing but steel. The hard steel of his nerves, the cold steel of the gun against his temple. He slid his thumb reverently over the trigger.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Just one last time.

He thought he heard a man pleading with him, a woman cackling. It didn’t matter anymore.

_“God, I’m not sure if you exist. But if you do, let me see Mom one last time. Let me apologize.”_

He thought he knew God’s answer. He was ready to find out, regardless.

Bruce pulled the trigger and did no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are much appreciated. Especially right now, as I'm having a crisis of confidence. 
> 
> The dialogue from the odd exchange between Dr. Jackson and Bruce towards the end of the chapter (starting with "'Dying,' Jackson paused, circling around Bruce..." and ending with "'The pure, gold baby that melts to a shriek!'") is from Lady Lazarus, by Sylvia Plath. It is not mine in any way, shape, or form.


	4. Is it Better to Out-Monster the Monster or to Be Quietly Devoured?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's been two years since I updated this. Thank you to everyone who's commented and left kudos. You've really helped encourage me to finish this story. 
> 
> No new warnings for this chapter. The chapter title is a Nietzsche quote.

Bruce was frozen. The barrel of the gun remained against his temple, and he refused to lower it. If he lowered it, then he had to admit it hadn’t worked. That he was still alive.

The cold, unforgiving click of the unloaded gun rang in his ears long after the noise had ceased. It rang throughout his whole body, making him shake so hard tears slipped out of his closed eyes.

He wasn’t here. He was dead. He was dead, he was dead, he was dead. He would open his eyes and be consumed by flames, doomed to the eternal agony he deserved and was so tired of putting off. Or, he would fade into nothingness. Blessed by the inexistence of a God meant to judge him.

Bruce thought he felt himself fade.

Bruce thought he felt…he thought…

He could not remember…

***

Steve forced himself to watch. He forced himself to plead. But Bruce still lifted the gun to his head and pulled the trigger without hesitation. The image of his actions left Steve with a disturbing sense of empathy and disgust. Yet, what sickened him the most was the visage of peace Bruce embodied when he still expected the bullet to penetrate his skull. And how his expression, his stance, his being didn’t change even after the dull click echoed in the place of a resounding bang. Tears leaked out of the corners of his closed eyes, but that was the only visible sign that Bruce knew he hadn’t died.

Bruce didn’t move. Even as Steve called to him, Bruce didn’t move. Steve recognized these symptoms. He’d seen them in men during the war. When incredulity and grief became too intense, some men would shut down. There was no better way for Steve to phrase it. The soldiers stopped responding to anything. Some would snap out of it after a few hours and never freeze up again, but others didn’t return for days, and refused to sleep or eat. They flinched hard at loud noises, shied away from physical contact, and wasted away.

“Bruce.”

Steve turned towards the female voice. Mara stood next to Doctor Jackson. The fear that had previously been so evident in her voice and body language had vanished. With a black grin and cold eyes, she stalked towards Bruce. She had appeared out of nowhere when Bruce first lifted the gun to his temple, coldly laughing while Steve begged Bruce not to pull the trigger.

Now, Mara put both hands on Bruce’s slumped shoulders, her own held taught in triumph. Her figure morphed, fluidly transitioning into a shorter woman with long, brown hair and the softest eyes Steve had ever seen. One of Mara’s hands left Bruce’s shoulder to cup his cheek.

“Bruce,” she repeated, though in a gentle tone. She moved to his gun while continuing to coax him. “Bruce, baby, it’s all right. Everything is going to be all right. Momma’s here.”

Nausea gripped at Steve. This was…this was beyond horrifying. The visage of Rebecca Banner tossed the gun to the floor, nimble fingers prying it out of Bruce’s frozen grip.

“We have to make more, Bruce,” Mara continued, her fingers softly stroking his hair.

Finally, slowly, Bruce opened his eyes. Tears poured down his cheeks in earnest, while a shaky hand reached out to grip Mara’s shoulder.

Steve tried to call out, but found he couldn’t. He struggled, only to find that once again he could only move his head. That action revealed that Dr. Jackson was no longer in the room, and Steve had to wonder now if neither Mara nor Dr. Jackson were even real.

Bruce’s stuttered words forced Steve’s attention towards the scene before him once again. “M-more what?” Bruce asked, voice thick and small. With tears pouring from his eyes and his hands and shoulders trembling, he looked very much like the young boy Steve had been forced to come to know.

“More soldiers,” Mara insisted as she continued to sooth Bruce. “To protect people like me from people like your father.”

Bruce winced, his eyes closing once again.

“I died for you, Bruce,” Mara said, desperation in her voice. “I died for you and you turned into your father. I can’t have died for nothing, Bruce. I can’t!”

Bruce lowered his head and sobbed. “I-I don’t know what—“

“They want to know the frequency of the gamma rays, and the ratio of anabolic hormones to norepinephrine. That’s all, Bruce!” Mara’s face lit up with Rebecca’s earnest smile. “And then we’ll be safe, and I won’t have died for nothing.”

“No, I-I can’t,” Bruce pulled away from his supposed mother’s grip, clutching his head as he did so. “I can’t.

Mara’s expression twisted into a sneer. She dug her fingers into Bruce’s scalp and pulled at his hair. “You can, and you will!”

Bruce, startled, tried to flinch backwards, but Mara kept a firm grip on his hair. She backhanded him, snarling, “After everything I’ve done for you? After everything you’ve become? You would let your mother die time and time again?”

Bruce grabbed her hand in his hair, pushing at the point where her thumb and forefinger met. She cried out as she was forced to release her grip. With a feral growl, Bruce pushed her with enough force to cause her to fall sprawling onto the ground.

“You’re not her,” he stated, his features twisted with rage. He loomed over her, shoulders raised and fists clenched.

At that moment, Steve could see the Hulk in the bearing of Bruce’s teeth and narrowing of his eyes. It was often easy to see Bruce in the Hulk after a battle, but never had Steve been able to witness firsthand the Hulk in Bruce Banner. The man in question had both hands around Mara’s throat. He was breathing hard as her fingers scrabbled around those large hands, trying desperately to pry them off. Her illusion fell away, and it was only slightly less heartbreaking to see Bruce’s hands around Mara’s neck rather than Rebecca’s.

He’d witnessed Bruce, seemingly consumed by rage, pounding on their cell door earlier. But that wasn’t rage. That had been desperation. Steve had known enough desperate POW’s during the war to spot the difference. It hadn’t scared him, only stirred empathy. He’d seen Bruce as a child trying to defend himself, and then later take revenge against those who had hurt him. But he’d also felt the regret as the bomb ticked “0”, and he’d known, just as Bruce had known, that the bomb had intentionally been calibrated to have an incredibly small, but powerful, blast radius. The odds of it harming, let alone killing, anyone other than Bruce had been zero to none.

This moment was the first time Steve had seen Bruce succumb so completely to his rage, the first time he had been forced to experience the sheer strength and abundance of it. It both frightened and awed him.

As Mara began to lose color in her face, Steve felt the solid force that had been keeping him immobile begin to loosen. “Bruce!” Steve screamed, finally able to speak. He struggled to his feet as Mara struggled for air.

He called Bruce’s name again, hurrying to his side. The moment Steve was able to grab at Bruce’s shoulders was the moment Mara’s eyes rolled back into her head. Everything else fell away.

***

Steve jolted awake. He quickly took stock of his surroundings. Two guards were already running at him, an IV stuck out of his arm, and a seemingly dead woman was slumped over in a chair. Steve pulled the IV out and used the metal pole it was attached to as a weapon, quickly knocking one guard unconscious. The second guard opened fire, forcing him to duck behind the metal table he had been strapped to. They must not have taken his enhanced strength into account, because as soon as he’d sat up the straps had ripped in half. He could also tell that he’d been drugged, though it was hardly enough to slow him down. They must have underestimated him in that respect, too.

He found an incredibly large syringe on the table next to him and hurled it at the guard. It pierced his shoulder, forcing a pained noise from him and causing him to drop his gun. Steve leapt over the table, pulling the guard’s helmeted head down against the edge of the metal surface, which knocked him out instantly.

Breathing hard, Steve turned to once again observe the room. The woman in the chair, Mara, had her neck bent at an unnatural angle, and was staring at Bruce, who was still unconscious on the table next to his own.  Steve removed the man’s own IV, and proceeded to rip his restraints.

Bruce’s eyes moved behind their lids, and he turned his head, frowning deeply.

“Bruce. Bruce come on,” Steve urged, the last strap coming apart in his hands.

As Bruce continued to stir awake, Steve crossed the room and felt for Mara’s pulse. To his surprise, it was there and it was strong. It seemed only her conscious mind had been injured. Steve pushed away the implications of that and turned back towards Bruce. The physicist was lying back with his eyes open, though nothing else had moved. Steve swallowed hard as he realized they were green.

“Bruce?” Steve asked

The physicist didn’t stir. Steve’s blood ran cold. Had Bruce somehow ended up like Mara?

Bruce inhaled deeply, and relief crashed through Steve. As the man began to push himself upright, Steve let out a relieved breath. He was fine. They both were, for now.

Bruce seemed to be taking in his surroundings, though when his gaze fell upon Mara, fear overtook his expression. Panic welled within Steve at the guttural growl that came from deep in Bruce’s chest.

“Bruce, Hulk, it’s okay. We’re okay,” he assured both Bruce and the child that lived in the man’s head. He wished he could give them some sort of physical comfort, but he had to scour the room for his shield.

Bruce blinked, and though his eyes remained green, Steve could pinpoint the exact moment the Hulk decided to back off. Bruce’s shoulders and head drooped, the scene reminiscent of a puppet who’s strings had been cut.

“I killed her,” Bruce whispered, and it was the lack of shock that had Steve’s stomach in knots. “I killed her. God, I killed her.”

“She’s alive, Bruce, Hulk, she’s alive but she can’t hurt you anymore, I promise,” Steve said.

The gamma green irises were proof that they were finally, _finally_ , back to the physical world. And for that Steve was grateful. However, they also meant that, while Hulk was choosing to trust Steve right now, he had yet to fully retreat inside Bruce’s head.

He wasn’t all that adverse to the idea of Hulk ripping this place and the people who’d hurt him to shreds, but he knew Bruce wouldn’t be able to forgive himself. And after what Bruce had been put through, Steve knew there was a chance Hulk would be so out of his mind with rage that he might accidentally hurt him during the carnage. Bruce really wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if that happened. Steve now knew that Bruce constantly worried about hurting the team, having had to bear witness to Bruce’s nightmares. If Hulk did accidentally hurt one of them one day, Steve wasn’t sure if Bruce would be able to stand it.

“Not real,” Bruce muttered, forcing Steve to focus on the present. “Do you know it’s real? How? Can’t know. Can’t know…” Bruce continued. He wrapped his arms around himself, gaze stuck on Mara’s blank face.

Jesus. The man was rocking back and forth ever so slightly. Steve could only stare in his own shock and heartbreak. How could he fix this? Fix Bruce?

An alarm began to sound snapping Steve out of his thoughts and urging him to take action. He might not be able to help Bruce through this right now, but he could sure as hell get them both out of here. He broke the locks on the cabinets and lockers on the back wall. “It’s real, Bruce, your eyes are green, and Hulk growled earlier,” he explained. His shield lay at the bottom of a locker. Steve grabbed it and glanced back at Bruce.

The man was shaking his head, refusing to make eye contact.

“Bruce?” Steve prompted. He kept repeating the man’s name, trying to ground him in some small way.

“Did that before.”

“No, they didn’t,” Steve insisted. “Even when you had the nightmare about Hulk coming out and hurting me, your eyes never flashed green.”

Bruce’s gaze snapped to meet Steve’s and he paled. “You felt it?”

“No,” Steve admitted. “I saw everything you were experiencing like a movie. But Bruce, we’re running out of time. We need to get out of here.”

Bruce shook his head. His pupils were blown wide, yet somehow his face seemed lifeless. Steve recognized it as signs of shock, and they just didn’t have time for that.

“Bruce, please,” he begged.

“Go,” Bruce answered with zero inflection.

“Dammit, stand up! I’m not leaving without you!” Steve snapped. He regretted it immediately. Even as Bruce flinched at the angry tone, his body responded automatically. With shaky movements, he stood from the table.

Steve would apologize once they were safe, but for now he had to focus on escaping. He quickly recognized that Bruce was shaking so badly, he could barely stand. Steve quickly threw Bruce’s arm around his shoulders, ignoring the way the smaller man tried to jerk away, even as his body slumped now that someone else could help support its weight.

Steve steered them out of the door of what had looked disturbingly like an ordinary hospital room, and into an equally nondescript hallway. There were guards running towards them, while people in lab coats scurried down the hallway.

Steve backtracked with Bruce into the hospital room. He helped lower him to the floor as gently as he could manage before turning to face the guards alone. They had yet to open fire, which was a good sign. Most likely they were under orders not to kill. He threw his shield, running at the guards he knew wouldn’t be incapacitated by it.

Steve was able to dispatch most of the men before they began shooting. He grabbed a gun from a fallen guard and ducked into a random room in one fluid motion. Rolling back onto his feet, he threw his shield into the fray. He hated using guns, but he didn’t have much of a choice. He leaned out the doorway and shot at the guards’ legs. With the last three guards writhing in pain, Steve emerged. He kicked their guns away, then began to go around to each one and lift them up by their Kevlar vests, only to throw them against the concrete hard enough to knock them out, their heads slamming against their helmets. By the time he’d reached the last guard, the man was trying to squirm away. Steve gripped the back of the man’s throat and squeezed, careful not to crush his trachea. The man scrabbled at the hand around his neck, and Steve was reminded of Bruce squeezing the life out of a woman who’d taken on the guise of his mother. Thankfully, the man passed out, and Steve was able to ignore the unwanted image as he dropped the man to the floor.

“Coast’s clear,” Steve said, careful to keep his tone gentle despite the adrenaline pumping through his veins. Bruce didn’t acknowledge that he’d heard him. His hands were curled into his hair while he hunched over on himself, and he had yet to stop shaking.

“Bruce, please, we have to get out of here,” Steve pleaded.

“Don’t matter. Don’t matter, don’t matter,” Bruce mumbled, his voice disturbingly void of the tremors wracking his frame.

“Yes, it does.”

“No, I don’t.”

It was Steve’s turn to wince. “You do. You matter to me. Now, please.”

Bruce simply continued to shake.

Steve grimaced. He wasn’t proud of what he was about to do, but he had to save Bruce. Even if the man didn’t want to be saved.

“If you stay, they’ll steal your blood.”

Bruce whimpered. He uncurled jerkily, like it was taking all of his willpower to stop existing as a shivering, lifeless mass, and began to try and pull himself up.

Steve immediately helped him, supporting some of his weight once more. They began to move down the hallway, which was progress, but they were walking much slower than Steve was comfortable with. They needed to leave while the compound was still in chaos. He led them in the same direction he’d seen the scientists running earlier. They were most likely trying to leave or get somewhere safe if word had spread that he and Bruce were loose.

They didn’t run into anymore guards, oddly enough. However, Steve overheard voices coming from one of the open doors. He silently set Bruce down so that the man was behind him and propped up against the wall of the hallway. With his shield held in the defensive, Steve peered into the room. Relief coursed through him as he realized it was occupied by two unarmed scientists who were doing something on a computer.

Perfect.

Steve threw his shield, running at the other man even as it struck its target. The still standing scientist barely had time to register Steve’s presence, let alone scream, before he too was out cold with a blow to the head.

His attention snapped to the computer. People could communicate through computers, he knew that much. How exactly, he wasn’t entirely certain. He could send Tony an email, but was that really the most effective way to communicate right now? There was definitely a way to talk to someone through video…

He left the room, gently lifting Bruce as to help the man stand again. Together they entered the room, and Steve lowered the shaking scientist into the desk chair.

“Can you get us in contact with the team?”

Bruce gave a sharp nod. He tried to move the mouse, but his hand shook so badly, it took a few tries before he could open up Safari. Typing proved to be even more difficult.

“Let me help,” Steve insisted. “Just tell me what to do.”

“Stark Industries email,” Bruce said by way of answer.

Steve frowned, his brows drawing together. “You want me to google that?”

Bruce nodded again, exhaling hard through his nose.

Steve did so, and clicked on the first link. It led him to what appeared to be a login screen for Stark Industries employees. “What now?” Steve prompted.

“’R’, ‘B’, Banner at ‘SI’ dot gov.”

“That’s your email?” he asked, even while typing. He wasn’t the fastest at typing. That, combined with the need to check his six every few seconds meant they had no time to spare.

Seconds ticked by, but Bruce didn’t respond. Steve glanced at him, and noticed that he was wringing his hands together.

“Bruce? Is this your email?”

“Yes. The password…” he trailed off, eyes closing in an attempt to remember. “Perseph, Cell, Bio 1977. Capital ‘P’, ‘C’, ‘B’.”

“Can you spell that?

Bruce cringed, but did so.

“Okay. Okay, I’m logged in.”

“Email Jarvis.”

Steve hit ‘compose’, and typed ‘Jarvis’ into the recipients, clicking on the suggested email that popped up.

“Send it.”

“Without a message?” Steve asked. He normally wouldn’t question it, but Bruce was in such a poor state of mind he felt it was necessary.

“S.O.S.”

Steve bit his lip. Talking to Bruce was like pulling teeth. The man was hardly responsive to anything at all, and it was becoming more and more difficult to ignore the feeling of panic Steve felt in regards to the other man’s wellbeing.

He had to focus, dammit. He typed the message and sent it.

The result was immediate. The image on the monitor changed, numbers and letters flashing quickly across the screen, until finally Tony’s face replaced it.

“Jesus, fuck, where the hell are you?” Tony asked. The area around him was dark, and Steve could see nothing of Tony other than the man’s head and neck. Blue light cast odd shadows on the man’s face, and Steve could only assume he was seeing them on the HUD of a suit.

“We don’t know,” Steve admitted. “Can you track us?”

“Yeah. Yeah, give me a second. Jarvis is hacking into the system as we speak. Are you okay?”

Steve bit his lip. “’Okay’ isn’t the word I’d use. Physically, we’re fine.”

Tony frowned, his eyes focusing on something Steve couldn’t see. “What’s wrong with Bruce?”

Steve cringed at the note of panic in Tony’s voice. Steve glanced back at the man. He had curled back into himself, shivering uncontrollably, and with his hands pulling at his hair.

“It’s a long story.”

“But something’s wrong with him?”

Bruce whimpered, causing Steve to flinch.

“I said it’s a long story, Tony,” Steve repeated, this time with more force.

Thankfully, the engineer seemed to take the hint. “You’re in fucking Jersey. Of course it’s Jersey. Thor’s actually closest to you. His ETA is a half an hour, and the rest of us are also on our way.”

Steve sagged with relief as he rubbed at his eyes. They weren’t out of the woods yet, but they were so much closer to ending this nightmare than before.

“Jarvis is obviously scanning their system and copying all of their data. Looks like they activated a self-destruction sequence, but he’s naturally turned that off. Don’t need you two blown up right before we rescue you.”

Steve could feel Bruce flinch next to him as the ear splitting alarm was finally turned off. The man growled, face hidden behind his hands.

“Hulk, we’re fine. The team’s coming. Everything’s okay,” Steve reassured him.

Bruce’s breath was coming faster and faster. “Bomb. Always a fucking bomb…” he muttered through clenched teeth.

Oh.

Steve himself had to push away that memory, which was still fresh in his own mind.

“You’re not there, Bruce. It’s alright. Tony stopped it. Everything’s fine.”

“Everything’s going to be fine, Big Guy,” Tony chimed in. Steve was surprised by the gentleness of his tone. “We’ve got you covered. Besides, Steve can’t lie. It’s in his contract. If he does, they’ll court martial him and take away the costume.”

Bruce growled again. “Drugs wearing off. Steve--” He was cut off by another, deeper growl that left him panting, as if in physical pain.

Steve paled. Of course, if he’d been drugged, Bruce would have been drugged, too. Why did he think just talking the Hulk down would be effective after everything Bruce had been through? Hulk was Bruce’s ultimate defense mechanism, and he’d just spent God knew how long being tortured in every way possible.

“Tony, we have a situation.”

A sudden “bang” followed by the sharp pain of a bullet wound drowned out Tony’s reply.

Steve doubled over, instinctively clutching at the exit wound on his stomach. Somewhere next to him he heard the sharp tearing of cloth accompanied by incessant growls. For better or for worse, the Hulk was unleashed. Steve dragged himself to the far corner of the room while Hulk was distracted with the guards pouring through the door.

Through the haze of pain, Steve watched the carnage unfold. Hulk was rage incarnate, ripping through guards like tissue paper while bullets recoiled off of his impenetrable skin. Bodies stopped entering the room, and Hulk tore through the wall to reach those who’d decided to flee. Only when no one else was left, did Hulk turn and look at Steve. Still, Hulk payed him no mind. He screamed, pounding at the concrete floor over and over again, demolishing the walls in a complete tantrum. Steve couldn’t blame him, after all he’d been through.

The giant, green child finally paused, his great chest heaving underneath his hunched form. The ceiling was too low for him to fully stand, and so he had to duck his head and shoulders to fit in the room. Steve wasn’t sure how long Hulk had simply raged against his unseen demons.

Hulk regarded Steve again before knuckling forward, ignoring the somehow untouched computer and stopping in front of him. He frowned at the man, and now that Steve truly knew what Hulk was, he could see through his initial terror and recognize the expression for what it was. The Hulk was scared.

“No one’s s’ppossed to see. Cap saw. Promise not to hurt,” Hulk demanded.

Steve gasped through the pain of his already healing wound. “Promise, Hulk. I promise. I won’t hurt you or Bruce.”

Hulk sniffed at him like an animal, then considered. Finally he nodded. “Good. Cap not hurt puny Banner. Now Hulk smash until nothing left to smash!” A feral glint returned to the giant’s eyes. “First save Cap, then kill the girl.”

Bruce’s word’s echoed in Steve’s mind, and he shook his head. “She’s brain dead, there’s no point.”

“Need to kill her,” Hulk insisted, and Steve could swear he saw tears welling up in Hulk’s eyes. “Pretended to be Momma. Hurt us. Hurt us!” Hulk howled, and God, it broke Steve’s heart. It was the sound of a wounded animal, of a child who was past the point of sobbing.

“Please, Hulk, that’ll only hurt Bruce more.”

Hulk roared. “Kill girl, can’t hurt Bruce!” he insisted.

“Killing her will hurt him, I promise. Trust me.”

Hulk frowned. He grabbed Steve, gently by Hulk’s standards, around the torso, and cradled the man to his chest like a doll. Steve hissed in pain as the skin around his bullet wound was pulled taut. The giant paused by the computer, regarding Tony (who was still on the screen and seemed shocked) with a nod. “See Metal Man soon.”

And with that Hulk was tearing through the building. Steve couldn’t see anything against Hulk’s mammoth chest, but he could hear screaming and the sound of wall after wall caving in. Cool air unexpectedly graced his skin. The sudden, relative peacefulness had him sagging in relief as he realized it was finally over. He groaned as Hulk set him down on the grass as gently as he could, which wasn’t all that gently.

Steve could only watch as Hulk turned back towards the lone building in the distance and began to absolutely demolish it. He disappeared inside the wreckage, and Steve could hear the screams all the way from where he sat. Deep in his bones, he knew Hulk was looking for Mara, and was going to kill everyone who crossed his path. He was concerned about Bruce’s reaction when he came back to himself, but that was the only remorse he could muster.

After watching the destruction for some time, Thor landed heavily next to him.

“Are you injured?” he asked, concern etched deeply into his features.

Steve looked down at the gunshot wound. It had stopped bleeding, now. “Nothing life threatening.”

Thor nodded, turning back to the bloody rubble in the distance. “And Doctor Banner?”

Steve grimaced. He scraped a hand down his face. “They did…they did terrible things to him. He’s going to need all of our support. And even then…”

“He is strong. He will recover.”

Steve couldn’t help but take comfort in the conviction in his friend’s voice. Bruce would be alright. They’d make sure of it. As the Hulk howled at the sky, pounding at the remnants of a building and the lives that had been within it, Steve couldn’t help but draw parallels to this scene and the similar one from Bruce’s nightmares. He bit his lip, doubt worming its way into his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There should just be one more chapter left, then I am planning on continuing this series with a story about Bruce's recovery. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated.


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